Ever After
by aWICKEDgiraffe
Summary: Once upon a time, there lived two children who loved their father very much ... Jonathan is just eight years old when his father dies under mysterious circumstances. Soon after, his Uncle seizes control of the Estate and strips John of his name and title. Ten years later, a chance meeting with a not-so-charming Prince will change the course of John's life for ever after ...
1. Once Upon A Time

**A Johnlock Cinderella story, based on the 1998 movie Ever After.**

* * *

"This story may be familiar to those who have read the Grimm's account of a young child, father passed on and left in the cruel hands of relatives, who is stripped of nobility and made a servant in the house. And yet, this story will be different in many ways. There is no glass slipper. There are no pumpkins turned to carriages, no mice to be horses, no Prince Charming. (There is a Prince, to be sure, but he is not very charming.)

"Now then, allow me to set the record straight. What is the phrase those brothers use? Oh, yes.

_"Once upon a time, there lived two young children who loved their father very much..."_

* * *

"Harry! Harry!"

A young, scrawny child of no more than eight years of age called out the nickname of his sister at the top of his lungs, darting around the legs of servants as he dashed across the wide planting fields towards his home. His sunflower hair and fair face were streaked with mud and dirt, the residue of a game of horseplay. His simple linen play-clothes were slick with grime, and his wide, toothy grin gleamed out of the filth like a beacon light.

His sister Harriet was found lounging on top of the garden wall close to the house, her smock dress tucked up around her thighs to cool her legs. A book rested in her hand. "What in God's name are you doing, John? You're making too much of a racket," she said snidely, lifting her button nose up at the boy. John had skidded to a halt right in front of her, leaning down on his knees to pant and gather his breath. "I'm not going to play with you, if that's what you want."

"No, Harry—Papa's back! Papa's back! He's just up the road, he's coming home!"

Harriet jumped off the wall, and together the two siblings raced back to the house just in time to witness their father's entourage come up the road. In the lead was Gregson the marshal, the military-trained defender and overseer of the stables. Close behind him were two grooms, and then it was their father's coach drawn by white horses. Taking up the rear were a few more of father's attendants, carrying the bulk of his luggage on their horses.

They could barely stand to wait for the coach to draw to a full stop before they flew to its side and flung open the door, revealing the grinning face of their beloved father. "Hello, my lovelies!" Baron Thomas Watson greeted cheerfully, embracing his laughing children as he stepped onto solid ground. "Oh, how your Papa has missed you—have you been good for Mrs. Turner while I was away?"

"Yes, Papa," the children replied, eager to please him.

Thomas knelt down on one knee, bringing him to eye-level with his son. "Oh, look at this! I do believe someone has taken my little gentleman and left a mud goblin in his place." He brushed some dried mud off John's face, humor sparkling in his eyes and a smile playing about his lips. "Were you playing with little Billy Murray again?"

John scrunched his face at his father's fussing. "Oh, yes—and Papa, you should see him! He looks even worse than me!" The Baron hummed his agreement lightheartedly, and then turned his sights on his daughter. He brushed fingers through her hair, and touched her sunburned nose. "And Harriet, my darling, reading out in the sun again, were we? You must be careful, or you're likely to become the smartest little girl in England!"

Harriet giggled. "I already am the smartest!"

"So you are," Thomas replied. He stood up. "And now, children, your father is tired and quite famished—let us go inside." He held out a hand to both of them, which they took, and together the little family went into the house.

Over supper, Baron Thomas paused in the breaking of bread to speak. "Children, I have some news to share with you," he announced, being sure to make eye contact with Mr. Turner, the chamberlain (who oversaw the domestic affairs at the house) and the steward Mr. Stamford as well (who saw to the health and wellbeing of the Watson family), so they knew it would pertain to their interests. "My brother-in-law Rossel and his son Jamie are coming to stay with us here in Newcastle for awhile. Won't that be lovely?"

The Watson children looked dubious; but as usual, where John kept his thoughts inside his head Harriet blurted hers without prudence. "But why? We haven't seen them in forever. Why now?"

"I ran into your Uncle Rossel in London a few weeks ago. We talked long and well, and he told me of his wife's sudden passing a month ago. It has been hard on him and his estate, so I invited the pair of them to come out to the country and rest. It is my hope that the sight of your smiling faces will help purge some of their grief." Their father's face softened a bit then, and a touch of sadness entered his eyes. "After your own dear mother's passing …" He shook his head, and in an instant his worn face lightened. "Well, we all have more in common now, don't we? I'm sure you and Jamie will get on famously."

"And are you going to try to know Uncle better?" John asked, taking a bite of bread. Thomas smiled and ruffled his son's (since washed) corn-yellow hair.

"Sweet boy," he praised, "I am indeed. Unfortunately, I have never been close with your mother's side of the family. But you have a chance to learn from Papa's mistakes, and get to know your cousin well. If you become close, it will make this old man happy."

With their father's confidences, the two Watson children readily agreed to the proposal, and discussed the topic in greater length at twilight, when the house was still and they should have been sleeping.

"What do you remember about our cousin Jamie?" John asked his sister, turning on his side to see her outline more clearly in the moonlight. Harriet technically had her own bedroom, but she still snuck into John's at night, where they preferred to sleep together.

"He's an arse," Harriet said crassly, and John gasped.

"Harriet!"

"What? No one can hear me. It's true! The last time they came here you were just a baby. He was a mean little whelp to be sure! He never would play with me, and he said it was because I was a girl."

"You're not a girl," John said, wrinkling his nose cutely. "At least, you don't play like one. Even I know that."

"That's right!"

"Did you whoop him for that? I bet you did," John said with a grin, holding his fists out like he could go a round right now. But his face faltered as Harry grimaced. "What? What is it?"

Harriet looked nervously off to the side. "I … _couldn't._ There was something not _right_ with him, John. I saw him ring a cat's neck just as heartless as anything! And I heard some of the servants whispering that he was a changeling," she whispered.

"What's a … changing?"

"Not changing, _changeling._ It means that faeries took the real Jamie away after he was born and left a nasty little faerie baby in his place."

"I thought faeries were supposed to be good creatures!"

Harriet gave John a scathing look. "Who told you that?! Faeries are mean and tricky and they lure people to their deaths all the time. Mrs. Turner says their music bewitches people; they have to start dancing and can never, ever stop—not until they die right upon their feet!"

"Oh!"

"Yeah, and others lead people astray in the forests at night, and then drown them in a bog. Faeries are nasty things, John. And so is Jamie. Better to avoid the both of them."

* * *

Uncle Rossel and his son Jamie arrived by carriage two weeks later, a small entourage in tow. Rossel was a hardened man, the girth of his beer-gut unmatched by his narrow face and short stature, making him look a cross between a bulldog and a spindle-legged cat. Jamie himself was all feline, large eyes and pale skin and a quiet, stalking demeanor.

John didn't much like the look of them at all, but the 5th Baron of Newcastle greeted them warmly, shaking hands with his foul-faced brother-in-law. "Rossel, welcome to Newcastle. I hope your trip was fair of weather and free of mishaps!"

Rossel smiled, and little John likened it to a drawing of a crocodile he had seen in one of his father's expensive encyclopedias. "Horrid journey, really. It rained for two days straight on the road and I had a horse break its leg while crossing over the foothills. Worthless creature. I slit its throat with a hunting knife and we had its meat for stew."

Thomas swallowed and smiled tightly, even as Harriet gasped at his side and said, "That poor horse! How could you do such a thing?"

She shrunk back, however, when both Rossel and Jamie turned their dark gazes upon her intently. "Girls oughtn't speak in a gentleman's presence unless they're spoken to first, right Father?" Their cousin Jamie asked tonelessly, but there was a wicked light in his eyes. Rossel nodded, but before he could voice similar boorish sentiments Thomas placed a supportive hand on his daughter's shoulders and quickly changed tack.

"And a welcome to little Jamie Moriarty, too. You've grown quite a bit since I last saw you, boy, but you're still so skinny. We'll have to put some meat on your bones before you leave us—Mrs. Turner's cooking ought to do the trick."

Jamie sneered. He glared at his uncle and said, "My name is not Jamie, its just _James."_ And then, strangely, the boy smiled like he was charming the devil, eyes sharp and mischievous. "Thanks for the invite, Uncle Watson. I'm sure we'll all grow quite fond of one another, don't you?" His eyes slowly moved to rest on John as he finished, and John could only remember his sister's warning: _Changeling—it means faeries took the real Jamie away after he was born and left a nasty little faerie baby in his place. They're mean things and lure people to their deaths._

John looked at his cousin and easily imagined a grotesque creature with sharp teeth and brandished claws, waiting to pounce on John and tear into his flesh. The small boy shivered, and was afraid.

That night, tossing and turning next to his sister, John dreamt of Jamie. In the dream, Jamie's large eyes shined a beetle-black, and his fingertips grew, sharpening to a clawed point. His jaw opened wide, and hundreds of sharp crocodile teeth snapped John up and swallowed him whole.

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, it became plainer and plainer that both Rossel and James Moriarty were cut from the same dark cloth, making a sport of cruelty and violence. James was constantly skulking about, and he was often found with his father's pageboy—a large blond boy named Sebastian with a square jaw and a scar running across his nose. They whispered to each other in low tones, and always silenced whenever anyone drew near. Their conferences usually included Rossel and a few of the Moriarty's attendants, and upon their conclusion Sebastian would vanish, off on some nefarious quest. Nobody ever saw him leave, and nobody ever saw him return; he was like an apparition, appearing and disappearing without a sound.

James demanded to join the Watson children whenever they went out to play, but he was a poor and spiteful sport. He callously tripped Harriet, causing her to scrape her knees, and pushed John out of a tree for no reason at all. When faced with Watson tears, James would only look boredly apathetic and say, "Don't play if you don't like the game." The servants were all skittish around him, and he treated them poorly, demanding their services at all hours. Not soon after he'd arrived, he forced John out of his bedroom, citing the soft goose-feather mattress in the guest chamber as the cause of his sleeplessness. "It doesn't matter why, it only matters that I am uncomfortable and I am a guest and I want to sleep in this bed," he'd stated pompously, standing in John's doorway nigh-on three o'clock in the morning in his dressing gown, accompanied by a harried servant. He'd sauntered closer to the bed and smoothed his hand invitingly over the duvet. "But this bed is plenty big enough, Johnny-boy, we can _both_ sleep in it." He'd smiled his crocodile smile and in John's mind his straight flat teeth sharpened to points and eyes turned black as pitch—

John was out the door before James could even get a leg up on the mattress. He hadn't slept a wink in his own bed since.

Thomas also was having absolutely no luck getting through to his brother-in-law. The Baron of Newcastle looked more and more uncomfortable as Rossel spent his days drinking, gambling, harassing the commoners and slinking around the estate, criticizing and appraising it of all its marketable resources in turns. Eventually, as a last-ditch effort to bond with the horrible man, Thomas suggested a three-day hunting trip that would double as a tour of his lands, with only themselves and a few trusted retainers present.

"An excellent idea, and it's about time," Rossel guffed, throwing back another cupful of wine in an excess that was typical of their supper meal. He was ruddy-faced, slightly cross-eyed, and always meaner when he drank. "Though we will take my retainers, as each of them are skilled in the art of the hunt. Honestly, Tommy-boy, your staff is so incompetent and undisciplined. They are soft with freedoms and should all get a good sound whipping, to remind them where their loyalties are owed."

Thomas looked vaguely horrified, and indeed the servants on the edges of the dining room echoed the sentiment clearly on their faces. "It's _Thomas,_ Rossel. And my staff are all highly trained and run my household wonderfully, so I'll thank you to not insult them. Take dear Mrs. Turner for example, she's been with me for years and there's no finer cook in all of England, or so my belly says!"

Thomas was very good at that, diffusing what could be an argument between them with a bit of humor. It was only a shame that Rossel's face got pinched afterwards, as if he'd like nothing better than to come to blows with Thomas and was rather indignant about the lost opportunity.

And so the details for the hunting trip were quickly planned out, and the servants all rushed around to prepare everything the two noblemen would need out in the forest. It seemed, in this brief window before the journey, that Rossel and Jamie were even more secretive. Rossel had an awful anticipatory energy about him, and went into town twice as often as he did before. Jamie seemed to walk around the estate with a permanent smirk on his face. John didn't catch more than the shadow of Sebastian as he slunk about the grounds.

The whole thing ate at the smallest Watson. There was a deep-set wrongness that filled John's belly at supper so he couldn't eat, and plagued his mind at night so he couldn't sleep. Who did Rossel keep meeting in town? Why did James look like a cat that had swallowed the family canary? And where did Sebastian disappear to every day? What did the three talk about when they were huddled together, whispering in low tones?

The night before Thomas and Rossel were to leave on their trip, something happened that finally tipped the scale from suspicion to realization of danger in young John's mind. John had woken up in the middle of the night needing a drink, but found their pitcher empty, so had gone down to the kitchens for a cup of water. It was on his way back to Harriet's room, where he'd been sleeping since Jamie had usurped his bedroom, when a breeze had carried a murmur up through the second-story window.

"…won't matter soon anyway. He'll be gone and then they'll all cry—oh, I can't wait! I do so like it when Johnny cries."

The soft, singsong voice of James Moriarty formed a ring around John's heart and cinched it tight. Barely breathing, he crept towards the window and crouched low underneath it, not daring to look out and possibly give himself away.

"What of the girl?" The voice wasn't Rossel's—could it be Sebastian? John had never heard him speak before, so it could very well be.

"What, don't tell me _you_ want her? Ugh, don't be so boring, Sebby. I imagine she'll be married off to whomever can stand her for more than five minutes. Ugh, they're all so boring, boring …" He had very nearly sung the last sentence, his tonal inflections making it sound like he was reciting poetry instead of whispering frightening things in the dark. "I'd rather talk about murder, lovely murder … _the jowls of death, with glist'ning marble teeth, close upon man in his final hour, as dust to bone to dust must return; the bells toll a mournful moan of angels!_ Oh, Sebby, it's like _music_ …"

John, feeling sick to his stomach, heard a snort. "You're mad."

James laughed a nasty, nasally laugh and said, "Oh, but haven't you heard? I'm a _changeling!_ I'm a nasty little creature that lures dull boys and girls into the forest and drowns them in the lake! You should see the way little Johnny looks at me, like I'm going to eat him alive and oh, _oh_ I love that expression. The best part is that it's true, it's so true—you hear me, Johnny-boy? We're going to swallow you whole until there's nothing left but bones! Ha-ha!" He got louder and louder as he got excited, forgetting to be quiet, shouting his proclamation to the stars.

John's heart leapt into his throat. _It's true! He's a changeling and he's going to cast a spell on the household and murder us!_ He scrambled away from the wall, knocking over a potted plant in the process—but he didn't care, let the evil little creature hear him and know that John heard! He ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, down the corridor and up the stairs to his Papa's bedchamber.

"Papa papa papa!" Jonathan knocked loudly on the wooden door, disturbing many people besides the one he'd intended. "Papa, open up, please! I need you!"

The door opened suddenly, and little John nearly tumbled through. "My goodness, Jonathan! What are you doing out of bed? Do you know what time—" and then Thomas stopped, taking in the pale face and shaking shoulders of his beloved son with concern. "Darling child, what is the matter? Come," he soothed, and picked the boy up to carry him to his bed.

Thomas tried to tuck the boy into bed with him, thinking he'd had a night terror, but the blond boy was too impatient and wriggled unhelpfully. "Papa, Jamie is a changeling! I heard him say it! He was out with that awful boy Sebastian and he was talking about crying and murder and bones and teeth and—and I _heard_ him, Papa! He said he was a nasty faerie and he was going to eat us! Oh, Papa, what shall we do?"

Thomas was flabbergasted. "What's all this, now? Faeries and changelings and eating people … you've had a bad dream, lad. Come now, settle in. Papa's here, everything is alright."

Such gentle tones dismissing his fears made John cry. "Papa, I am afraid for us! Uncle Rossel is a bad man, and I don't want you to go alone on a trip with him. They'll lure you to a bog and drown you! Please don't go!"

Thomas rubbed John's shoulder soothingly, but his eyes were distant and he was frowning. The expression only lasted a moment, before the Baron was smiling and hushing his boy again, but it was enough for John to know—Thomas thought Rossel was a bad man too, and wasn't looking forward to their trip any more than John.

"Papa! Papa!" Harriet's voice echoed from the hall, and soon the twelve-year-old was pushing open the door to Thomas' chambers, pale-faced and worried. "Papa, I can't find John, he went to the kitchen but hasn't come back—oh," she interrupted herself as she saw her brother tucked safely under the blankets. "Can I sleep in here, too?" She asked hopefully.

Laughing, Thomas Watson threw back the covers and welcomed his daughter to their little family huddle. "The more the merrier," he jested.

As Harriet was getting settled, Thomas reached over and collected something from his bedside table before shimmying under the soft duvet next to his precious children. When they were all reclined on the goose-feather pillows, he handed John and Harry a small package.

"I was saving this until you both were a bit older—but I think we all could do with a little cheer right now, don't you? It's a little thick for children, but I thought we could add it to our library."

Together, the Watson children tore into the package, and revealed a book with a pale yellow cover. John ran his fingers over the embossed gold title, and Harry read it aloud. "Utopia."

Thomas tucked an arm around both their shoulders. "It means, 'Paradise.' Now, shall we read the first chapter together?"

"I'll read first!" Harry exclaimed, scooting to the middle and opening up the book to its beginning. Reading was Harry's favorite pastime, and she was very good at it. "The first chapter: Discourses of Raphael Hyth ... Hythloday, of the Best State of a Commonwealth," she read.

Harry read, and then John read a little, with his father's help, and then Thomas read. He read the longest, until the light of morning started to creep into the sky, and the two children beside him were fast asleep.

* * *

Thomas pulled on his riding gloves, taking the opportunity to hide a yawn behind them as he stepped out into the crisp morning air. It had been an incredibly late night, and he was exhausted—but, his children's happiness was worth any amount of suffering and sleeplessness on his part.

Rossel was already at his horse, checking his supplies, and his two darling children were waiting for him by the door along with the house servants and Mrs Turner, all of whom had such miserable expressions on their faces that Thomas could only laugh. "Why, I've never seen so many gloomy faces! I shall be back in three days time."

"Then go, Master Watson, for the sooner you leave the sooner we can celebrate your safe return," Mrs. Turner said tearfully.

Thomas gave his beloved housekeeper a kiss on the cheek, and said, "We will feast upon the spoils of my hunt when I return. Dig up some potatoes and carrots, and we can have a hearty venison stew."

"As you wish, Master."

Thomas then bent down on his knees before his children, and Jamie Moriarty who stood beside them. "Goodbye, Harriet. Goodbye, Jonathan." He kissed each on the top of their heads as he bid them farewell. "James, be good while your father and I are away. All three of you, listen to Mrs. Turner. She's in charge until we get back."

Jamie had a smiling, insincere expression on his face. "Yes, Uncle Watson. We will."

Thomas patted the small boy on the head, and turned to mount his horse. His retainers gathered around him, checking that the supply bags were properly secured, and that the saddle would not budge while their master was astride it.

"Are you sure I cannot attend you, Master?" Gregson asked beseechingly, while fiddling with the horse's bridle. "Only I don't like the idea of you going without any of us with you."

"Not a worry," an oily voice sounded from nearby, and both master and servant turned to see Jefferson, Rossel's marshal, looking on with glittering black beetle eyes, the leashes of several running-dogs held in his hand. "We'll take good care o' him."

Thomas bent over to put a hand on Gregson's shoulder. "I'll be back soon. I'm not even leaving the property, really. Just a quick trip into the forest and back out again."

"Come on, Tommy-boy, your servants don't need coddling!" Rossel spat, giving Gregson a disgusted look. "They should keep their mouths shut and remember their place," he hissed at Newcastle's marshal.

Gregson didn't dare glare back—but it was obvious he wanted to. He bowed his head and grit out, "Sorry, Master. Safe journey."

Sending his man an apologetic glance, the small hunting party finally rode out—Rossel and Thomas, followed by Jefferson and two other groomsman, all belonging to Rossel. At the gate, as was the Newcastle tradition, Thomas pulled his mount up short and turned back to the house, waving enthusiastically.

"Goodbye!" Harry and John shouted, waving frantically back, even long after Thomas had disappeared over the hills just beyond the gate. "Goodbye ..."

In the strengthening light of what would turn out to be a beautiful morning, it was easy to feel safe. After Thomas's reassurances and a good night's slumber, it was easy for Harry and John to go back to their lessons under the stern eye of their tutor, Dr. Stamford. It was easy for the servants at Newcastle to carry on as normal, awaiting the return of their beloved Master. It was so easy, that all fears were forgotten, and it was inconceivable that anything bad could happen.

Inconceivable that beautiful morning, crisp and bright, that it would be the last time anyone ever saw Baron Thomas Watson alive.

* * *

**I am in need of a Beta and a Brit-pick, preferably one in the same, and preferably one that has an account over at AO3. And if I can be just a bit more picky, perhaps one interested in future collaborations? Message me if interested!**


	2. The Death of John Watson

**Chapter warnings: Graphic depictions of violence. Mentions of murder and suicide and hints of suicidal thoughts. Child abuse and neglect. Butchering of the medieval British justice system. Read cautiously if you are triggered by any of these things.**

* * *

The hunting trip had been planned to last for three days—so when the party was seen coming up the road after only forty hours, Gregson and Mrs. Turner knew in their hearts something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Gregson rallied his groomsmen and they rode out to meet the party, while Mrs. Turner ran into the house to interrupt Stamford and fetch the children. By the time they got outside, nearly the entire household had heard the news, and were huddled by the door in a nervous bundle.

As the horses drew nearer, John searched desperately among them for the figure of his father—but didn't find it. "Oh, _no,"_ he gasped, eyes watering immediately, panic filling his small body to the brim. "No, _no—"_

"John?" Harry cried fearfully as John broke out into a run, making for the hunting party. Mrs. Turner tried to catch hold of him, to stop him, but the boy was too quick for an old woman.

"PAPA? PAPA!" He darted around horses' legs, causing one to rear and throw its rider—but he didn't care. He looked at each of the men, looked at their empty faces, looking for the one that would be gentle and bright, smiling down at him with eyes overflowing with warmth and love—

He reached the end of the entourage, where the last horse had been rigged to a cart. On that cart, where the spoils of the hunt should have been stacked and secured, lay only one body; wrapped in bloodied sackcloth and bound with ropes, it was very clearly a human figure—one that John would know anywhere.

The Baron Thomas Watson of Newcastle, his beloved father, was dead.

John screamed.

* * *

He didn't remember much of what happened after his discovery of his father's body. It was only explained to him hours later, lying flat on his belly, being nursed by a distraught Bill Murray.

He'd thrown himself onto the cart, struggling with bare hands to tear the ropes and rip the sackcloth, weeping heavily and begging the cold figure under his hands to come back, to not be dead. There had been hands at his elbows and the scruff of his neck, trying to pull him back—but he fought them fiercely, commanding them to leave him be. At one point, when the cart had reached the house, Harriet had joined him, sobbing and clutching at their father alongside him.

And then, Rossel's voice had filled his ears.

"It was a hunting accident," the pot-bellied man explained ruefully, hands rubbing at his bent forearms in a show of distress and regret, like a mock-embrace. "The hounds had lost the scent of the hart by a creek. We dismounted and fanned out, hoping to cover more ground—but Thomas, the fool, went in the wrong direction and startled one of the groomsmen. Thinking the sudden movement was the quarry, the man shot him with his crossbow. By the time we had arrived to the scene, it was too late. He was dead."

John had surged up from his father's body in a red rage, hatefulness spewing from every pore, all directed at Rossel Moriarty.

"LIAR!" He'd screamed, jumping over the side of the cart and pointing an accusing finger at his uncle. "You planned this from the beginning, you and your changeling son, I know you did! I heard Jamie last night, I know the truth—you _murdered_ him! Vile man! Murderer!"

Hands held him back, but nothing could stop him when Jamie had stepped up next to his father, a scowl upon his lips and yet satisfaction glittering incongruously in his eyes. "Don't speak to my father that way! How dare you accuse him of murder? Your father died not as the victim of some nefarious plot, you wild cur, but as a victim of his own stupidity. It was his own fault."

With a monstrous roar that did not belong in the throat of an eight-year-old, John had surged past the hands restraining him and punched Jamie hard right in the mouth. The boy dropped like a stone to the ground, and his cry of pain was a balm to John's fury.

He didn't get to enjoy it for long. Rossel had reacted swiftly and brutally, signalling his attendants to form a barrier between them and Gregson's men as he slapped John across the face and sent him down hard to the ground beside his bleeding cousin.

"Listen hard and well, you lot," he addressed Newcastle's servants, pale and horrified as they watched him plant a boot in John's back, keeping him supine on the ground. He snapped his fingers, and one of his groomsmen put a horse whip in his large hand. "Baron Watson is dead, but that does not make you masterless." At Rossel's signal, the same groomsman bent down and rucked up a squirming John's shirt, exposing his sunned, unblemished young back. "I'll be staying on. I'll not let such a thriving estate fall into neglect and ruin." There were gasps and some small screams from Harriet as Rossel soundly whipped John, leaving long red welts along his back. John shouted in pain and then began to cry, as more welts were created and blood beaded to the surface.

Gregson surged forward, horrified and angry, but Rossel's men held him back. "No disrespect sir," he said, his tone indicating he meant an _inordinate_ amount of disrespect, "But Newcastle has a master still. Young Jonathan there, lying in the mud, is the heir apparent to the Newcastle barony, as first-born son of our late Lord Thomas Watson. The lands and the estate will fall to him!"

Rossel did not reply, choosing instead to finish the thirty lashes, painting the youngest Watson's back a bright, wet red. After fifteen lashes, John had stopped crying, and after twenty five he stopped moving at all.

Deed done, Rossel stepped away from the boy's unconscious body and faced the frightened and furious faces of Newcastle's servants once more.

"Young Jonathan is an eight-year old boy who is barely educated and would not have the ability to run such a large business as this even if he were _twice_ that age." He paused, and sent John a poorly-disguised sneer. "But English law cannot be disputed—the boy will inherit the title when he comes of age. For now, he is too young. As his only remaining family, I will act as a regent of this estate in his stead." He paused, and looked every single servant in the eye. The air was filled with so much dark meaning, silent oaths of malice weighing down the atmosphere as he lingered on Harriet and Gregson, before finally speaking once more. "And things are going to be a lot different around here."

* * *

And so they were. Rossel wasted no time; Thomas's grave had nary been dug before he called a solicitor in from town, a slimy little character named Richard Brooke who seemed quite content in Moriarty's pocket. Together, Rossel and Brooke disappeared inside the late Baron Watson's study, to review the Baron's Last Will and Testament and the relevant English Law to determine the fate of the Newcastle barony. They did not invite the Watson's solicitor, nor did they include John or Harriet in on the proceedings.

They were at it for five days. It was a very trying time for the surviving Watson family; with the dirt still fresh atop their father's grave, both Harriet and Jonathan were grieving. John was also recovering from his incredibly harsh punishment, his back bound in bandages and still very tender. With their father gone, and the servants lacking any authority to interfere, their treatment at the hands of the Moriarty's worsened, morphing from disdainful tolerance to full-out mistreatment.

The Watson children had always had a separate tutor from Jamie, but when Rossel set Dr. Stamford to other tasks away from the estate, he had not replaced him, leaving John and Harriet with no school lessons. Instead, they were pressed into work alongside the servants, after Rossel had spewed nonsense about Newcastle being understaffed and unforgivably slothly after Baron Thomas's death. There had been many a servant to protest this, Gregson premier among them—but after having Gregson and the other protesters thoroughly beaten, Rossel made it clear that no opposition would be tolerated. So Harriet plucked chickens and baked bread alongside Mrs. Turner, and John endured hard labor and pain in the fields under the watchful eye of Jefferson, sweat pouring down his little body and irritating the lash wounds.

The servants had it worse than even the Watson children. They struggled to keep up with the escalating demands of the new "Master" and his son, and many found themselves beaten and turned out on the street, bruised and penniless. And those were the _light_ offenders.

One of servants, an older woman who had been the midwife at John's birth, went missing the second night after the Moriarty's solicitor had arrived at Newcastle. Huddled in bed together, still shaking with the loss of their father, Harriet and Jonathan swore they could hear the distant sound of a woman screaming. After an hour of this, the night was suddenly silent, and somehow ... somehow, that was even worse.

She appeared the next morning, wandering the orchard, dazed and confused and supporting a terrible head wound. "I-I fell off the ladder," she mumbled, eyes wide and watery gaze darting back and forth, like she was trying to catch sight of a demon in the corner of her eye. "I f-fell off the ladder. I fell off the l-ladder." It was the only thing she would say. And the morning after that, she was found by Gregson out in the stables, hanging so still from the noose around her neck.

Mrs. Turner signed a cross as they took the midwife's body away, and many of the young girls were crying. John stood limply with Harriet, and couldn't bring himself to feel anything other than numb. The light had gone out of his world, extinguished along with his beloved father. Everything was so grey, and dark, and meaningless. He found himself staring at the noose, loosened and still hanging macabely from the rafters, and letting his mind wander to unspeakable things ...

* * *

On the fifth day, John was called into his father's study. Waiting for him was the slimy solicitor, Brooke; an unfamiliar town magistrate by name of Van Coon; and Rossel, looking a bit wild around the eyes, like a panther right before he pounces on what he knows will be his next meal.

"Come in, boy. Sit down," the magistrate commanded, looking solemn and stern. "Sir Thomas Watson's will has been studied, testimonies have been written, and it is time to decide the fate of this barony and the Estate of Newcastle."

John blinked slowly, the only indication that he had heard the magistrate's words. He wouldn't be told anything he didn't already know. The barony would be his to claim only upon coming of age—five or six years suffering under the hands of his cruel Uncle in the meantime.

"To begin the hearing, please state your name in front of the court scribe." He indicated a man that John had not noticed before, tucked away in a corner behind him with ink and parchment, ready to copy down every syllable spoken today.

"Rossel Moriarty of Armagh."

"Jonathan Hamish Watson, of the Watson clan of Scotland."

"And you claim to be the son of the late Baron Thomas Watson, his firstborn and heir apparent?" Van Coon asked.

John frowned, thrown off by the magistrate's language and tone. "There is no claim, Sir, only a fact. Yes, Thomas Watson was my father."

The magistrate nodded in the direction of the scribe. "So the boy claims legitimacy. What is the counterclaim?"

Rossel stepped up, looking at Van Coon with narrowed eyes as he said, "That the boy is illegitimate, and the inheritance is forfeit."

_What?!_

"Very well. We shall proceed with the arguments. The court calls upon the Defense. Boy, how shall you defend your claim?"

Extremely alarmed, John rose from his chair. "What? Uncle Rossel, what is going on? Illegitimate? What does that mean?"

Brooke sent John an ugly little sneer at his ignorance, but clarified. "It means that you were born out of wedlock to some wandering cur and his bitch, not the late Baron or his wife, thus rendering your inheritance null and void. With that said, _what is your defense_?"

John was reeling, his poor eight-year-old brain unable to process this man and his demands. "Uncle, I am your sister's son, you _know_ this, what are you saying?"

"Let the court record show that the boy's only defence is the assumed knowledge of a man who was privy to neither the conception nor the birth of said child."

"What? W-wait...!"

John struggled for breath, falling back into his seat as he finally started to comprehend what was happening to him. Oh, God have mercy. This was some sort of perverse court hearing. The Watson family solicitor was nowhere in sight, and they were making an eight-year-old child defend himself without any forewarning or time to prepare. _Lord God in Heaven, please help me. They mean to take my father away from me a second time!_

"The court now calls on the Prosecution. Lord Brooke, what evidence do you present against the child's inheritance claim?"

Brooke, with a menacing little grin on his face, held up a piece of parchment. "I bring before the court a written account of the birth of Jonathan, born to a vagrant prostitute on the very grounds of Newcastle. This account was penned by none other than the midwife who delivered the baby." He handed the paper over to the judge, who read it carefully.

John leapt to his feet. "That is not true! Uncle, please, you _know_ this is not—"

"SILENCE!" Van Coon roared, knocking John back onto his seat with the sheer volume of his yell. "One more sound out of you boy, it will be contempt of this court and you will be arrested and jailed," he snarled viciously.

Tears leaked down John's face. It was all becoming increasingly clear. These two men were the ones whom Rossel had kept meeting clandestinely in town. He'd arranged for this corrupt trial as part of his plan to murder John's father and take over the wealthy estate, and then had kidnapped and tortured the midwife in order to forge documents the would 'prove' John's illegitimacy. He thought back to the night he and Harriet had been huddled under the covers, listening to the distant screams of a woman, and days later when he had seen a corpse hanging from the rafters, lit by the pale grey light of morning. Perhaps that too was a machination of Rossel's plan, another murderous plot to cover his tracks.

"Let it be shown in the court record that the document presented by the prosecution details the arrival of a sickly peasant woman named Mary to the gates of Newcastle. She was in labor and was begging for a dry, safe place to have her infant child. Thomas and his wife, having a small girl-child of their own, find sympathy with the bitch and allow her a fresh stall in the stables in which to give birth. The midwife is called, and the boy Jonathan Morstan comes into the world. When the mother dies shortly thereafter, Thomas and Elizabeth Watson gift the new infant with their last name, and take him in as their own."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the scratching of the court scribe's nib against the paper as he worked furiously to dictate the fantasy that was the midwife's letter. John remained still, wary of the magistrate's warning even as he wanted to cry and rail and fight and curse.

"Having heard the prosecution and the defense, the court will now deliberate on a verdict." Judge Van Coon swept his eyes across Brooke and John, and then smirked. "The verdict has been reached. Judgement is in favor of the prosecution. Jonathan is hereby stripped of name and title, and the inheritance of the barony of Newcastle shall be passed on to the closest male in the line—Rossel Moriarty, brother-in-law to the late Thomas Watson. The court recognizes the new master of Newcastle, Baron Rossel Moriarty."

The verdict was read back by the court scribe. There was the thud of the gavel on the desk. Papers exchanged hands, and signatures were written. At one point, John was also forced to sign some papers, using a name that was as unrecognizable to him as a stranger's: Jonathan Hamish Morstan. _Who is this person?_ John wondered, as his small hand shook around the pen. _He has stolen my family and my life from me._

As John sat numbly in his chair, Rossel saw his solicitor and the judge to the door, thanking them for their services. When it was only John and Rossel in the room, John finally spoke. "What will happen to me now?"

Rossel's entire demeanor changed. He sauntered over to the desk and leaned against it casually. "Though I would like nothing better than to cast you out of here, it wouldn't be wise. I do need these grubby little peasants to keep the place running, but if I turn you away I may have a revolt on my hands." He picked up an apple from the desk and took a huge bite. "Mm. I think I'll give you to James. He does seem to have taken an interest in you, hasn't he? He's in need of a valet, ever since the last one—well, you don't need to know about that." He took another bite and made John wait while he chewed the flesh and spat out the skins.

He discarded the half-eaten apple, and gave John a weighing look. "From now on, you and I are no longer family. You will not call me Uncle—it is Sir, or 'my Lord.' I have no duty to your wellbeing, interests, or education. You exist solely as a servant in this house. You will do as you're told, and any privilege or small comfort you receive must be earned with hard work. You will never refer to yourself as a Watson again. You are forevermore Jonathan Morstan, is that clear?"

As he realized with Rossel's words all that he had lost, tears leaked down John's face. What could he do? Nobody in this household would ever believe Rossel's story of a prostitute and an adoption, but with the town magistrate firmly in Rossel's pocket and the falsified witness testimony accepted by a court of law, even a perverse one, there was nothing anyone could do. John had been effectively stripped of his name and made a servant in his own house.

He was trapped. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, closing his eyes against a deluge of sorrow. He felt more than heard Rossel walk to the door.

"In the end, perhaps I am just sentimental. I will not turn you away, Jonathan, in honor of my sister. It won't be so bad. It could even be a peaceful life for you, as long as you do everything that's asked of you."

Lies, lies. Life would never be peaceful again, John was sure of it.

"Well, let's go spread the happy news, shall we? Come."

* * *

And so it was done. As the news was spread to a shocked and horrified staff, it became clear to everyone that life at the Newcastle Estate would never again be the happy home it once was.

John's new status made all of his belongings forfeit; James, who had already taken John's bedroom, now took everything within it as well. All of John's books and souvenirs from his father's trips now belonged to James. John's wardrobe was taken into town and sold, only because they would not fit the slighter boy, leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back.

He was no longer allowed to play or associate with Harriet at all. When Dr. Stamford again began tutoring her, John was banned from attending the lessons as a servant didn't need to be educated. They were forbidden from sleeping together in her room, as was their norm. She was no longer considered his sister; she was still a Watson, a girl of noble birth—and nobles did not have servants as brothers. John belonged to her just as much as he belonged to the Moriarty's, and so their relationship could never be the same.

But John still had Gregson, and he thanked God every night for it. The old military man was considered of higher status than the average servant, and was too valuable to the estate to cast out with the other disobedient staff. He was, however, demoted from his position as Marshal and put under the command of Jefferson, Rossel's right-hand man. He did not take to it gracefully, and often received harsh punishments for his defiance against Jefferson and the new master of the estate.

Gregson, in his new position as Head-Groomsman, took young Jonathan under his wing. He called John "Young Master" when there was no one else around to hear it, and John considered him to be like a grandfather to him. He trained John to be a valet, and made a warm bed for him in the stables with the other groomsmen.

Even so, it was a hard life. The mindset of a servant was slow to come to John, cobbled together in a shoddy mass of lashes, beatings, and days without food or drink. James Moriarty was a particularly cruel master, and found John a clumsy and talentless valet. He loved to see John cry, and strove for it with every session. Rossel himself was quite contemptuous, and often gave John double-and-triple workloads in addition to his valet duties.

The hard labor changed John's very foundations. As he matured into a young man, his petite body grew hard and thick with muscle mass and his skin turned dark and calloused. The vivacious and carefree child once called Jonathan Watson was lost to the world forever, and in his place was Jonathan Morstan—a quiet and serious lad who was kind-hearted, hard-working, and subservient on the outside; but torn apart by grief, loneliness, and hatred on the inside. Those who knew and loved him feared this inner darkness, believing it would one day be the death of their beloved young master.

* * *

It would be ten years before another spark would enter his life, ignited by a brilliant man who was still a boy in many ways ...


End file.
